The Harp of Kings (Warrior Bards)

by Juliet Marillier

  “Nessan!” calls Illann again. He sounds further away. I need to get out of here. But the dog is between me and the door.

  I try gestures—My friend is leaving, I have to go. Both dog and woman ignore me. She fetches a corked jar, spoons something into a pot, adds water, puts the pot on the fire. The dog watches her. What is this? What am I doing wrong?

  Exasperated, I upend the pouch. The contents clatter onto the table, forming a small hill. The dog growls. But the woman rises to her feet and comes over to me. She plucks the empty pouch from my hand and, dexterous, scoops every last copper back in. She draws the string tight and gives the pouch back to me.

  “Keep your coins, young man. If I could give you wisdom to take away, I would. Maybe you cannot speak. But you can look and listen. You can understand, if only you open your mind a little further.” She smiles. “Go, then. Find your friend. Storm! Here.”

  The wolf-dog pads over to sit close by her. I’m free to go.

  “Storm will guide you and your friend to the edge of the forest,” the old woman says. “While she walks with you, the Crow Folk will not trouble you.”

  I’m on the doorstep when something makes me pause. She’s given back my money, she’s offering the services of her only companion to go with me, she’s provided shelter and food and most likely healing. Part of me is full of suspicion—why would she do this? Why would she refuse payment when she lives so poorly? Why would she let the dog go with me when she’s alone and vulnerable? Why do whatever she did to make me sleep and take away my pain, unless she wanted something from me? Another part of me, one that doesn’t often speak up, wonders if the solution is much simpler. I cannot say Thank you aloud. But I turn back, laying my right fist over my heart, and attempt a bow.

  The old woman smiles again. This time I see warmth in her eyes. “Good,” she says. “You can learn, then. Perhaps by slow steps. But that is not such a bad thing. Storm, take him to the edge. Off you go, young man. Don’t protest, let the dog go with you. Storm knows the safe path.”

  This advice proves to be sound. Down on the main track, Illann is waiting with the two horses; his usually tight-lipped face breaks out in a smile when he sees me coming.

  “Thank all the gods, you’re safe,” he says. As I come closer, I notice how pale he is. And he has some bruises he didn’t have yesterday. “A dog,” Illann adds. “Or is it a wolf? We can’t take it with us.”

  I try to convey with looks and gestures that the dog belongs nearby and that she’s coming only as far as a point somewhere ahead, then coming back. I fail to do so, and resort to drawing in the earth with a stick. I have more success with this.

  “Anything that will make the journey quicker,” Illann says. “Can you ride? That was quite a fall.”

  I nod, then point to the bruises on his face, lifting my brows.

  “Got into a spot of trouble. Took me a while to track the gray down, thanks to some enterprising locals who thought they’d keep her in their barn. Took even longer to extricate both the horse and your bags. By the time that was sorted it was too late to get back to you safely. Spent the night in a place of shelter. Just as well we’d brought some fodder for them.” He sees me running my hand over the gray’s flanks and down her legs each in turn. “She’s not injured. And she’s well rested now. Should be good to go on.”

  I get up into the saddle, knowing how much pain I should be in. My gratitude to the crone is matched by the lingering concern that somehow, sometime, there will be a price to pay for her services. As for now, Storm has waited only until both Illann and I are mounted to head off along the path. Her head is high, her eyes are bright, and it’s clear she knows exactly where she is going.

  9

  BROCC

  When we were children our mother told us tales of Morrigan—crow and woman, goddess and creature—swooping low over the blood-soaked field of battle, gathering the spirits of the fallen. She told stories of wise crows and mischievous ones. Always, those stories had a link with death. No bird in those tales was like those we saw as we approached Breifne. Not far out from our final destination we took a high path through forest. This has a local nickname: the Crow Way. Later, I asked folk the origin of this title. Superstition, one man said, and another, It winds through the forest. There are all sorts of birds there. But a third said, There’s things in that place would freeze the blood in your veins. Things you might think are birds, until you look close. Not that any man in his right mind would be wanting to do that.

  Perhaps a bard does not have a right mind. When I glimpsed the creatures I wanted to go closer, to see what they were. Not crows, for certain, though they had a look of that bird. They seemed like beings from beyond the world of men and women, too big, too powerful, too knowing to be natural. I am writing a song about them, though perhaps I will not sing it here at the regent’s court. As anticipated, Lord Cathra has hired us right up till midsummer, so we will need our entire repertoire to keep things fresh for the audience, and new songs as well. I must not become so engaged in writing that I forget our true purpose here. But I am a musician, and I will continue to be one, not only to maintain our cover, but because I cannot do otherwise. Tunes come to me; rhymes and tales spring to life in my mind. I could not stop this even if I wished to. Liobhan tells me I was born with that music in me. I am not sure it is so simple.

  When I rode through that forest, I wanted to stop, to dismount, to wander into the shadows beneath the trees in search of something I could not name. It was insanity, and I did not obey the urge. As I left that place, I imagined I heard my harp call out, though it was safely stowed in its bag and strapped to the packhorse. The others gave no sign of hearing anything, and I could not tell them. I should put this, too, into a song. Not that capturing a wild thing thus can tame it; but it may help my troubled heart to accept it.

  So, we are here at the court of Breifne. My harp has survived the journey; after retuning and the replacement of two strings, it sounds just as it should. Liobhan is in a good temper and ready for the challenge facing us. She is restless when not active. Swan Island suits her, with its regimen of combat practice, cliff and rope climbing, and other physical exercise. Before we’ve been at court half a day, I see her walking on her hands, then using the bending limb of a tree to pull herself up over and over. I don’t report this to Archu, but I remind her that a musician would not be doing such things, and joke that it’s just as well she was wearing her trousers. I remember well how she was as a child. Everything Father did, she had to do, too. Scaling tall ladders, chopping wood with the big ax, herding a furious bull from one field to another. Most fathers would have dismissed the demands of a small daughter, or even a bigger one, to attempt such tasks. Our father taught her how to do these things safely. Should we fail to win places on Swan Island, she could become a master thatcher like him, though even she could not craft the creatures for the ridge in quite the way Father does. I think sometimes there is magic in his hands, though he would smile and shrug if I told him that.

  Perhaps the reason Liobhan is so keen to maintain her strength is that, as soon as we get back to Swan Island, she intends to beat Dau in combat. He probably has no need to walk on his hands or swing from trees. Wielding a smith’s hammer would build a man’s strength pretty well, I imagine. When we get back, Archu should teach him to play the bodhran.

  There, I have made myself smile. Dau, a musician? I think not; the man is as little suited to minstrelsy as I would be to the life of a chieftain’s son. Dau will go back to the island and be accepted to stay; or he will return to his father’s holding and resume his privileged existence there. The former, I hope. He would be the better man for it.

  We play for the household on our first night at court. With time so short, Archu thinks it best that we make our presence known straightaway, and what better opportunity than this? Everyone is gathered, from Prince Rodan and the regent down to serving folk, grooms, and a group o
f children under less than strict supervision. We choose pieces that are tried and trusty, those most popular with our audiences back home. While we sing and play I try to observe, as we’ve been taught, but it’s hard; my mind loses itself in the music. At a certain point, someone in the crowd asks for dancing, and folk move the tables and benches back to make space. So we give them a couple of reels, and then “Artagan’s Leap,” which allows Liobhan to show off her talents on the whistle. The children love the jig; they try to clap in time, even though it gets quicker and quicker, and they perform their own version of the dance to the accompaniment of much giggling. Except for one, who sits very still, apart from the others, watching us with such concentration that it’s a little unnerving. When I smile in her direction, she turns her gaze away as if caught out in a misdemeanor.

  Folk like the performance. Even Prince Rodan comes over to have a word when we’re packing up. He’s got a very big bodyguard with him, a man nearly as tall as our brother, Galen, who performs a similar role for the prince of Dalriada.

  “Thank you for your efforts,” Rodan says with a smile. “I know very little about music. But folk enjoyed that. I hope we will hear more from you.”

  Archu explains that we’ve been hired until midsummer, and that we’ll share the duties with other musicians already present at court. The bodyguard is talking to Liobhan. Something about dancing.

  “Oh, we don’t get much opportunity to dance,” she says, being Ciara, flattered by the interest but a little shy. “With only three in the band we all have to play or sing every piece, more or less.”

  “Perhaps when the other band is playing?” The big man sounds keen.

  “That would be nice,” says Liobhan, sending a quick glance in Archu’s direction as if fearing a reprimand. “We’ll see.”

  “Garbh!” It’s a command. The prince is moving away, and his guard has no choice but to follow, though he looks at my sister over his shoulder as he does so.

  “I think Garbh likes you,” I murmur as we gather our possessions, ready to leave.

  “Keep your thoughts to yourself.” She shoves me in the ribs, not too hard.

  “Could be useful,” puts in Archu in an undertone. There are still folk close enough to hear us. “I’d better have a word with the other band. Don’t want to intrude on their territory. But all together, we’d make a grand sound. I believe they have a piper.”

  10

  LIOBHAN

  Archu reminds me not to draw the wrong kind of attention to myself now we’re at the regent’s court. No tree climbing. No doing exercises where someone might walk in and see me. No tucking up my skirt. I must think before I speak, every single time. My part in the mission is to make friends with the women of the household and pick up any useful information I can. They’ll all hear me playing and singing in the evenings, so I shouldn’t need to introduce the topic of music and maybe harps. And everyone will be excited about the coming coronation ritual. Archu tells me, not for the first time, that I’m here to listen.

  I sit quietly while he gives me this lecture, and when I say, “Yes, Uncle Art,” I really do mean it, though Brocc has already told me much the same thing, and I don’t need to hear it again. My brother is just a tiny bit older than me, or so my parents guess, and he seems to think that gives him some kind of special responsibility. I’ve never, ever thought of myself as anyone’s little sister. Not even Galen’s, and he’s nearly two years older and noticeably taller.

  I try. I talk to some maidservants who heard me sing on our first evening. They’re not interested in music, except to mention how handsome our harpist is, especially when he has that faraway look in his eyes. They ask me what herbs I use to get my hair so glossy. This leads to a conversation about hairstyles that would suit me better, and offers to come and help me with plaiting before the next entertainment. I work hard on smiling and listening, though it’s a struggle. I learn nothing at all.

  I see the same women the next day and the next, and allow them to do my hair up in elaborate braids decorated with ribbons and flowers. I hope Garbh, the big bodyguard, doesn’t interpret this as being on his behalf. I ask the women about the ritual, but their interest is all on what they will wear for the occasion and whether there will be dancing after the celebration feast. I get restless. On the next day, when there’s nobody around, I seize the opportunity to climb a certain big oak tree I’ve had my eye on, and am surprised to find myself, halfway up with my skirt tucked into my belt, face-to-face with a small child perched on a branch. I open my mouth to utter a squawk of surprise, but the child—a girl—puts an urgent finger to her lips, signaling silence. We’re quite high up even by my standards, and I’ve seen nobody else about. If I had, I wouldn’t be doing something that contravenes both Archu’s orders and Brocc’s brotherly advice.

  We sit there on our branch, eyeing each other in silence for a while. I know next to nothing about children. This one looks to be about six or seven and I think she was in the great hall while we were playing, sitting a little apart from the other young ones. Will she be in danger if I simply climb back down and pretend I haven’t seen her? I expected to encounter only birds and maybe a squirrel or two. Not this small, solemn person.

  I take a good look at her, trying to think like a spy. What can I deduce? The girl is breaking rules, as I am, or she wouldn’t have told me to be quiet. Maybe she’s playing a game, hiding and waiting to be found. But I can’t hear any other children calling. There’s no sign of a solicitous mother or nursemaid. I see a hint of trouble in this child’s expression. Maybe she’s up here because she’s afraid. Hiding and not wanting to be found. Her clothing is of very good quality—a blue-dyed overdress with elaborate wool embroidery at the hem and neck, over a shift of fine linen. If she has shoes, she’s left them at the bottom of the tree. Her stockings are in holes. Hair: brown. Eyes: brown. Snub nose, dimpled chin, a face that would be pleasing if it were not so woebegone. It looks as if she’s been crying. I want to ask if she’s all right, but she did order me to be quiet. Maybe we’ll sit up here all morning, side by side, and say not a word between us.

  When my small companion does speak, it’s so softly I nearly miss it. “I know you,” she says. “You play the whistle. And sing songs.”

  “Yes, that’s—” I halt as her finger goes to her lips again, urgent this time.

  “Whisper! Or you’ll wake up Máire.”

  I glance around as if Máire, whoever she is, might be perched somewhere in the oak. “Who’s Máire?” I whisper.

  “She’s meant to be looking after me. But she fell asleep. Can I play your whistle?”

  “That would really wake her up, wouldn’t it? Anyway, I don’t have it with me.”

  “Oh.” The sorrow in that word is too great to be mere disappointment over something so trivial. I notice then that she has a cloth bag beside her on the branch. A head pokes out from it, with a pair of eyes sewn on in dark brown wool. The thing looks ancient; the coarse fabric is stained and threadbare. From the shape of the ears, I guess it is intended as a dog or cat.

  “I could show you another time,” I say. “If Máire says it’s all right. Do you know how to play?”

  “You could teach me.”

  This is not what I’ve come to Breifne to do. What can I learn from a small child? But maybe the nursemaid, or big sister, or whoever the slumbering Máire is, will prove a more useful source of information. The girl’s pleading eyes are like those of a neglected puppy. “I could show you how to play a few notes. It takes a lot of practice before you can play tunes.”

  She picks up both bag and plaything and hugs them to her chest, regarding me solemnly. The skin of her face and hands is very fair, and her nails are clean. Despite the tree climbing, her long hair is shining and has been neatly plaited, though some wisps are escaping. This is not the child of a servant.

  “Only, no music up in this tree,” I tell her. “I might
drop my whistle and it doesn’t bounce very well.”

  “Oh. All right. I like that tune that goes fast, really fast, with lots of notes.”

  “And everyone gets up to dance?”

  She nods, expression still grave.

  “That tune is called ‘Artagan’s Leap.’ It’s quite tricky to play. We might start with something simpler.”

  “Can we go and do it now?”

  “No, because we have to find somewhere quiet, and you have to ask Máire if she approves, or you might get me in trouble. Also, if I’m going to let you play one of my whistles, I should know your name. Mine is Ciara.”

  The child whispers her reply just as a woman calls from down below, “Aislinn! Where are you?”

  “That’s Máire,” Aislinn says, still keeping her voice quiet. “She doesn’t know about this tree.” Now she sounds scared.

  “You go down first, then, and I’ll wait until you’ve moved away.”

  She slides quickly off the branch, making my heart jolt in fright. But she’s as nimble as a squirrel; I watch her rapid progress down the tree with admiration, wishing I could still do such things as swiftly and silently. Partway down she stops and looks back up at me. “Don’t forget,” she mouths.

  I nod, and in a moment she’s gone. I don’t even know whose child she is or where I might find her again.

  I wait until I judge Aislinn will be out of sight, then climb back down, untuck my skirt, and head for the women’s quarters. Lord Cathra’s household is brimful with visitors, and the communal sleeping quarters are close to overflowing. Folk of high status—chieftains, wealthy landholders, councilors, and senior lawmen—are accommodated in private parts of the main house, some with their families. As musicians, we don’t fit anywhere. Our skill earns us respect, but we don’t belong in the circle of highborn folk that includes Lord Cathra and his wife, and the heir, Rodan. We’re treated courteously and well provided for, with hot water for bathing, comfortable pallets, and excellent food. But the folk who sleep beside us and sit by us at table are servants. If Archu thought we’d have easy access to the prince and his circle, or to his rival claimants, he was wrong. The only time we mingle with the highborn is when we entertain them in Cathra’s great hall. And that can hardly be called mingling. They sit and listen—or, in the case of certain ill-mannered folk, keep on talking and laughing while we play and sing, ignoring us completely—and we stay on our platform, working hard, until it’s time to pack up and retire for the night. It might not be such a bad thing to get up and dance, should the opportunity present itself.